THEODORE DALRYMPLE
Ithink I should abandon the world: I am too easily irritated by it. I should follow the example of Xavier de Maistre, brother of the brilliantly reactionary philosopher, Joseph, and stick henceforth to my room. In his Voyage autour de ma chambre, de Maistre tells us that by describing his journey he is offering an infinite number of unhappy persons a perfect antidote to boredom, and that the pleasure of such a journey is proof also against the ceaseless envy of men. Moreover it is cheap, an advantage not to be sneezed at in time of rising prices.
No sooner do I leave my house than I meet, or at least pass, people who chew gum. This vile habit makes them look like vicious and ruthless but stupid ruminant carnivores, chewing endlessly on the gristle of a corpse.
Worse than their appearance, however, is their habit of leaving their gum to be trodden into the pavement. Every pavement in England is now mottled with flattened gum, and there are few more unpleasant sensations than that of incompletely dried-out gum sticking to one’s shoe. Intellectuals tend to despise Lee Kuan Yew, but on the great chewinggum question, which is one of the greatest facing mankind, he was absolutely spot on.
Then there are young people with earphones in their ears and trances on their faces. I wouldn’t mind so much if I thought they were listening to anything worthwhile; but they are going deaf from bad taste. Their suffering will be merited, but it will be suffering nonetheless.
Every day I pass the Oxfam shop, the poster in whose front window never ceases to infuriate me: Thankyou, it says to passers-by, for being humankind. I hate the totalitarian language reform, of course, exemplified by the use of the word ‘humankind’; but I hate the implication that people are to be congratulated and thanked merely for existing even more. Is there anybody who actually believes that ‘Thankyou for being humankind’ corresponds to a worthwhile thought or sentiment? The only thing that can be said for it is that kitsch is seldom so concise.
Then I come across an advertisement for a telephone company that funds a literary prize. It features the most recent prize-winner, ending with a slogan that makes the death of Little Nell seem like a detached clinical report. ‘I am who I am because of everyone’, it says.
This suggests such grandiosity and selfcongratulation masquerading as humility that I feel as though I am wallowing in treacle laced with nitric acid.
How nice it is to return to my room, then, where lies cannot reach me — except, of course, via the internet:
I am Dr Ibrahim Diop, the account manager of Late MR CHO TAE YOUNG in BSIC Bank, here in Burkina Faso Ouagadougou Africa. I discovered his Dormant Account with a huge amount of Money (8.3 Million Dollars only) that belongs to MR CHO TAE YOUNG who died in a plane crash with his entire family, if your are interested to run this deal with me, then more details will be discussed once I hear from you and 40% for you while 60% for me.
Thankyou, Dr Ibrahim Diop, for being humankind.
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